


statues

by athena3062



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan AU Week 2015, F/M, London, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena3062/pseuds/athena3062
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an injury derailed her military career, Emma Swan booked a trip to London. It was supposed to be a short trip to get her mind off what happens next, but instead she meets Killian Jones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	statues

Emma tugged her zipper as high as it could go before stuffing her hands into her pockets. She’d worn layers but her feet were already cold inside her boots. The gravel walkways were going to be hell on her knee, but she had come to Kensington Gardens on a mission.

It was quiet, too early for most tourists to be awake, but Emma never slept well anymore. She’d landed four days ago, her phone heavy in her purse. No one was waiting in the States for Emma to text with news of her safe arrival. She carried the phone anyway; the international coverage she’d opted into was good for a month, according to her phone company. Emma hadn’t thought that far ahead. She didn’t know where home was anymore.

The paths were nearly empty, her feet loud against the stones. She tugged her guidebook – permanently borrowed from her high school’s library – from her purse. It should be directly up ahead, if the map was right (and if it hadn’t been moved), but Emma only saw green lawns and trees.

The weather was what she had imagined April in London to be like: damp and overcast. Yesterday the temperature had spiked in the afternoon and Emma had tramped through a street market in a sweat-soaked shirt. She shivered, yanking her sleeve over her wrist in vain; she should have brought gloves.

Emma considered the paths, squinting and straining to see if one would lead her in the right direction.

“You look lost.”

She turned to her left, eyes flickering over at the man standing on the grass. Emma assessed him quickly: around her age, give or take a few years, with disheveled black hair and stubble that was at least a few days old. He wore a long coat (the kind she didn’t think people actually wore outside of movie sets) over a button-up shirt and dark jeans. Under normal circumstances she’d find his blue eyes and full lips attractive. But she didn’t come to London to meet anyone. She came for herself.

“I’m fine,” she replied firmly, without the barest hint of a smile. She’s travelled alone, and been in enough rough places, that she’s perfected what she considers her ‘thank you but please leave me alone’ expression.

“Alright.” He held up both hands (no rings in sight nor tell-tale tan lines on the important fingers, not that she was looking), “I was just trying to help.”

Emma rolled her eyes. She’s good at reading people; her squad leader used to call her a human lie detector. He looked defeated, lonely in the same way she imagined she must look to other people (shoulders too tense, lips set in a firm line, eyes that didn’t sparkle with light), and she relented. There were other people within shouting distance and she was clearly lost (she knew wandering through an unfamiliar park alone wasn’t a smart decision either.) Asking for directions might save her some aggravation.

“Fine,” she replied without stepping closer. “I’m looking for something.”

He rocked back and forth, from his heels to the balls on his feet, not trying to conceal his ‘I told you so’ smirk. But he waited for her to finish.

“The Peter Pan statue,” she added, cheeks flushing. It was silly, trekking through a park in search of a statue, and she waited for the teasing that didn’t come.

“Ah,” he said, looking toward his left (the direction Emma had been going), “it’s down there about two, maybe three minutes further.”

Now she was embarrassed. Emma balled her hands inside the pockets of her coat, stamping her feet for warmth. “Oh. Thanks.”

A woman with two small dogs came up behind them and Emma stepped backwards to let her pass. Her mystery guide followed suit, taking two steps closer to Emma. They exchanged good mornings with the woman before staring at each other.

Emma shifted two steps to her right. “Well thanks.”

His smile was crooked but it made him look younger, one eyebrow raised slightly. “Anytime lass.”

She waited for a moment to see if he would follow her, but he continued in the opposite direction. Emma watched his retreating back for several paces before she walked away, hands stuffed in her pockets.

The light mist had turned to rain when she reached the statue. She would have found it without help, if she’d continued on.

It was just like the picture she’d studied for years, smaller than she’d realized, set atop two circular steps. The trees behind the statue were not yet in bloom, thin dark lines against the gray-blue sky.

The rain coated her hair but Emma wanted to savor this moment. She tried to take in all the details, to compare the image in her mind (from the guidebook and one of her favorite movies) with what she was seeing. It was everything and none like what she had expected.

London had been fixed in her imagination for so long that she found herself constantly waiting for the reality to creep in and ruin her trip. So far she’d moved through the museums and tourist attractions without too much letdown. But she couldn’t outrun herself.

When her final papers came in, making her discharge official, she’d booked her flight to London. It had burned to see the words, to know that her career had vanished. Twelve years of order and routine (and purpose) gone.

No one had questioned her decision to travel (not that she’d asked anyone for their opinion, but her trainer and landlord and even the guy at the ticket counter in Baltimore had offered one).

Emma sniffled loudly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She fumbled in her purse for her camera and snapped a quick picture before moving closer. She stared at the plaque in the ground, mouthing the words to herself and taking another photo.

Feeling foolish (it was just a statue, nothing to cry over), she began her walk back to the entrance, retracing her own steps. She stopped abruptly at the edge of the fountain (its name escaped her and she didn’t bother to look it up).

Her mystery guide was sitting alone on a bench, facing the water. She could keep to the outside path and never have to acknowledge him.

Instead Emma dragged her feet over the stones as she approached his bench. It had been too many days since she’d spoken more than a few words to anyone.

He looked over, frown lifting when he saw her face. “Success?”

“Yeah,” Emma replied, stuffing both hands into her pockets. She should move on. There was no reason to stare at the overcast sky with a man she just met.

He stared at her intently, reading something in her expression. Instead of pity, there was a flash of recognition in his eyes. “Why Peter Pan?”

“It’s my favorite book,” she answered with a shrug. She wouldn’t tell him that she’d found refuge in Neverland. Emma wasn’t sentimental but she’d carried her battered copy of Peter Pan (found at a garage sale for a quarter when she was nine) from one foster house to another, hiding it beneath a mattress or pillow so no one would take it away. It was the first thing she’d pulled out of her storage locker after boot camp and the last thing she’d put into her backpack before she shipped out. She’d memorized most of it and found herself on more than one occasion staring at a familiar page without reading a word.

“Killian,” he said out of the blue and she frowned in confusion. “My name,” he offered, even though she hadn’t asked. ”Killian Jones.”

“Oh.” Emma bobbed her head.

He tilted his head to the side when she didn’t say anything further. “And you are?”

“Emma,” she replied roughly. Her first name was unfamiliar, too many years of answering to Swan, but she was a civilian now. Bitterness crept up her chest and she focused on the man in front of her, trying to not be carried under by her own thoughts.

Killian forced a smile (corners of his mouth curling but it didn’t reach his eyes) and chuckled softly. “Are you a Lost Boy or a Wendy Darling?”

Emma jerked her shoulders slightly in a half-shrug. “I’m partial to Captain Hook, if you really want to know.”

“That villain?” This time his smile was geuine (if not mocking).

“Oh he’s just misunderstood,” she replied.

“Ahh,” Killian teased, “you fancy him. I should have guessed you had a weakness for perms and waxes mustaches.”

This time Emma didn’t bother to pretend she wasn’t amused.  “Exactly.” She settled beside him, one hand on her bag, the wrought iron railing digging into her hip. She glanced at her watch. “Don’t you have anywhere to be? A job or something?”

“Not today,” he replied darkly. “It should have been my brother’s thirty-third birthday.”

“I’m sorry.” It was inadequate but she didn’t have the right words to soothe people.

He nodded, jaw clenched. The minutes ticked by and she began to regret sitting down.

“You came all this way for a statue?” He turned toward Emma, one arm over the back of the bench.

She could lie, spin the same story she’d repeated before, but she couldn’t form the words. Emma inhaled quickly. She’d never see him again.

He must have sensed her hesitation. Killian withdrew his arm and stood up, shaking his head. “My apologies. I’ve interrupted enough of your morning.”

She didn’t think, standing up so they were side by side. “It’s okay.” On her feet, the truth was a burden she wanted to discard; she hadn’t told anyone the story from the beginning.

“I was a Marine.” She glanced at Killian but he didn’t flinch (or make a rude joke). “My knee got messed up.“

“What happened?” He didn’t hesitate to ask, which she appreciated. During her rehab she had skirted around well-meaning people (therapists, nurses, other patients) who saw her t-shirt (or the tattoo on her shoulder blade) and assumed it was a deployment injury.

It wasn’t and she told Killian that, plainly. It had been a routine training exercise, but she’d landed wrong coming over the wall and hadn’t been able to get up. “I tore my ACL,” she finished. “Two surgeries later, here I am. They wouldn’t let me back on active duty.” There were options, the doctor had told Emma before her first surgery, rehabilitation before returning to duty. But no one had known the extent of the injury, the torn ligament that was so badly damaged it would never be the same, no matter how many operations. She couldn’t run: without muscle and tendons to cushion her knee, the friction of bone on bone was almost unbearable, but Emma wouldn’t quit. She’d done her rehab, waited to see if her petition to remain on duty would be approved, and when it hadn’t, she’d bought a one-way ticket to London.

Uncomfortable, she trailed off, staring into the distance. She’d said too much, shared too much of herself with a stranger. It still hurt to admit that her career was over. She was used to running away but the Marines had been the first place she’d felt like herself in a long time. Now she was drifting without an anchor.

“You shouldn’t waste the good weather,” Killian said, apparently undeterred by her silence.

Emma raised an eyebrow. The rain had changed back to a light mist, but her feet were nearly frozen.

“What are you a tour guide now?” It felt good to joke with someone else; she’d spent too much time alone.

He chuckled. “No, but I’m bloody cold. Care for a coffee?”

“Not tea?” She shifted from one foot to another, trying not to shiver.

“Not today,” he countered.

“Alright,” Emma replied, “but just a coffee.”

“Course. One cup and then you can return to your holiday.”

Emma nodded. She could have coffee with him. It didn’t mean anything.

They walked through the park in silence, gravel crunching beneath their boots. Killian adjusted his stride slightly to not outpace Emma.

It was only coffee, Emma rationalized, nothing more than two lonely people sitting a table in a warm café. She did better alone but just this once she’d make an exception.

* * *

Five months later they marked his birthday in the same park, two coffee mugs balanced on the bench between them.


End file.
